Unleashed - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part 2

by Duncan Whitehead

  He found Chalky sat beside Ignatius’ bed.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” said Morgan as he stared at the decomposing corpse of Ignatius Jackson, which had become matted and attached to the bed where his body lay. “Here boy, that’s a good dog. Give me that bone,” said Morgan as he edged towards Chalky. Chalky, though, was not about to give up his prize without a struggle and once again bolted, this time into Ignatius’s office.

  Morgan once again gave chase and followed the tiny dog as he entered the office. Chalky, now bored with the game, dropped the bone and sauntered back to guard the body of his dead master. Morgan shrugged as he bent down to pick up Tom Hudd’s left shin bone and held it in front of his face. A lime green remnant of a pair of jogging pants, covered in Chalky’s saliva, dangled precariously from the first part of Tom Hudd’s skeleton, now in the ungloved hands of the detective.

  As he rose, he glanced at the desk that sat facing the window that overlooked the park. On it was a file, marked “Gordonston”. Morgan placed the bone on the desk and opened the file. Inside were photographs and a set of notes, four to be exact. He recognized them all. Tom Hudd, Billy Malphrus, Carla Zipp, and finally Elliott Miller. What the hell was this? He thought, the Chief really needs to see these. As he turned to leave the office, he noticed two more things lying on the office floor, and he bent down to pick them up; the stub of a recently smoked cigarette, he sniffed it, menthol flavored, and a child’s toy. A stuffed rabbit.

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  Morgan decided not to exit Ignatius Jackson’s home the same way he had entered. He would leave via the front door. It was far more dignified than climbing over those railings again, though, any dignity he did have was superseded by the fact that his rear end protruded from his ripped trousers.

  As soon as he opened the front door, he was met by two men, both wearing dark suits and sunglasses, both with stern looks on their faces and both with wires attached to their ears.

  “And you are?” asked one of the men.

  “Detective Morgan, Savannah PD. Who the hell are you?”

  “That doesn’t concern you,” replied the man, flashing a badge in Morgan’s face. “This property has been confiscated by the US Government. A matter of national security. All its contents remain inside. What is it have you there?” he asked, pointing to the files, cigarette butt, stuffed rabbit and shin bone that Morgan clutched to his chest.”

  “Evidence,” replied Morgan.

  “Hand them over,” commanded the man.

  “Okay, give me a second, let me lay them down, I am about to drop them,” answered the Detective. He returned into the house and placed everything he carried on the table that sat by Ignatius Jackson’s front door. A second later he returned to the door and handed over three files, the stuffed toy, cigarette butt and the bone.

  “Is this it, all you have, three files?” asked the dark suited man.

  “Yes,” lied Morgan, “and this bone, toy, and cigarette butt.”

  “Did you read them, the files?”

  “No,” and this time he told the truth, he hadn’t, but he had wanted to.

  “Okay, get out of here, you can keep the bone.”

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  Peter Ferguson stood over the grave of his old friend. The burial had been a brief affair. There had been no other mourners in attendance, just him. He sighed as the last piece of earth was placed in the grave, and he nodded his appreciation to the grave digger as he departed the graveside, handing him a twenty dollar bill. Now, finally alone, Pete Ferguson mourned for Ignatius Jackson.

  They had been good to their word; a burial at Arlington Cemetery for a man who had served his country valiantly; a hero, a highly decorated officer who not only had help defend the country as a soldier, but who had also been a loyal servant as a civilian. So what, thought Ferguson, the ‘Organization’ had deviated toward private contracts, so what if they had been ‘guns for hire’, the simple fact was that they were a tool, a device used by them, and irrelevant of the jobs not contracted by the government, they had been essential in protecting the country. They knew it, so, even though the ‘Organization’ was now finished, now closed, now nothing more than investigation that would eventually lead nowhere, they had understood.

  They had ensured Pete Ferguson that Ignatius Jackson would never be linked to the ‘Organization’, they had promised Ferguson that Jackson’s former home had been thoroughly ‘cleaned’. There would be no link, no one who could connect the dots, and no one who could ever point any accusing finger at him.

  Ignatius’s home had been stripped of all documents, files, computers and printers. All equipment, including secure telephones, had been destroyed.

  Of course, the ‘Organization’ would resurface, eventually, when the House Investigation by the Senate was over, once the dust had settled and all the leaks plugged. They needed the ‘Organization’, and they knew that they could not operate without them. Black Ops, ‘unauthorized’ killings, clandestine operations and deniable involvement were always needed, not just by America, but by her allies too. And the ‘Organization’ provided them, at a cost. Turning a blind eye to their ‘private’ business was something they had to accept.

  There were, of course, many lose ends, many unanswered questions and just as many unasked. But Peter Ferguson’s only concern at this time was his friend. He wondered if he had done the right thing; maybe Ignatius had wanted to be buried next to his wife in Savannah. However, that could have presented more problems, should some nosy cop, or determined Fed start asking too many questions. Ignatius’s DNA could never be taken, only a Supreme Court judge could authorize the exhuming of a body interned at Arlington, and, not one of them would ever allow that. Peter Ferguson was confident of that.

  Ignatius Jackson had broken many rules. He had contacted a contractor directly by sending his signed note to Doug Partridge warning him that his family was in danger. Somehow, someone had gotten a hold of a list naming contractors, indicating which ‘jobs’ they had carried out, against all protocols. The sad fact that Vladimir Derepaska’s father, hell bent on avenging his son’s death, had purchased Doug’s information, and then murdered Doug’s wife before taking his own life, had been ‘unfortunate’. He shook his head. Gordonston. Of all the coincidences, of all the bad luck, that these so called ’civilized’ people would resort to murder to settle their differences. Of course, it was over; all the files had been destroyed. None of the contracts would be fulfilled. Not that it mattered. How ironic, thought Ferguson, that two of those earmarked for death were already dead, but not at the hands of the ‘Organization’.

  Three contracts, all in the same neighborhood, one fulfilled by a contractor who actually lived in the same vicinity. It was, he guessed, fate. And, of course, his old friend Ignatius, the conductor of this crazy orchestra. Three. Just three. He had recalled that Ignatius had mentioned four contracts, but he must have been mistaken, because after the ‘clean’ only three files, containing details of those earmarked for death had been found. There was no way of double checking either, as all databases, all hard drives, all disk drives with any information pertaining to the ‘Organization’ had been wiped and destroyed. No, Ignatius had become confused, probably due to his sickness, there had only been three contracts, Billy Malphrus, Carla Zipp and Tom Hudd, and they were all now dead.

  There was of course one other loose end he would have liked to have tied up, if he could. Doug Partridge. Wanted for the murder of Tom Hudd and his wife, as well as the kidnapping of his daughter. He doubted even they would find him. His name of course was false, even Pete Ferguson didn’t know Doug Partridge's real name, and with multiple names and identities to rely on, the man was gone, a ghost, no doubt living in some far flung corner of the earth in retirement, and hopefully thankful for his freedom and the life of his daughter. But he was still a loose end, and worse, he was potentially a loose cannon. It would be simpler if he was dead. He was the only link; the only link left to Ignatius, and ulti
mately back to him. Maybe, once the organization reformed, regrouped and reinvented itself, he would make it a priority to find Doug Partridge and, for his own piece of mind, have him killed. The question was though, how do you kill a ghost?

  He checked his watch. He had spent too much time thinking. He had responsibilities, and one of those responsibilities was sat in the back seat of his car. Before leaving Ignatius’s graveside, he stood straight and saluted his old friend and then headed to his vehicle.

  “Calm down,” he said as he sat in the driver’s seat. “Relax, Chalky, I am taking you home. A new home, with me. You will love it, boy, you will love it.” Ferguson shifted his car into drive, and his new best friend sat in the back of the car, oblivious to where he was going, but still seemingly grieving the old man who had cared for him for so many years, and apparently happy that he had found a new master. Ferguson didn’t know how long Chalky had, he was of course over 17 years old. He would spend his final days, though, spoiled and pampered, and Pete Ferguson had no intention of continually dyeing and bleaching the dog’s fur, as Ignatius had. Chalky wagged his now darker tail, and barked.

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  Cindy Mopper rarely ventured outside her home these days, unless it was to walk Paddy and Walter, or to shop for groceries. Sometimes she would venture into the park, usually at night, so no one would see her. She had, for all intents and purposes, become a recluse. She no longer played any role in the Gordonston Residents Association, she no longer produced the newsletter, and she was no longer the once energetic and efficient organizer of the Gordonston Book Club. The only person she ever encountered, and that was rarely, was Betty Jenkins, and only briefly, should Betty be walking Fuchsl at night. As for The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club? It had ceased to be.

  Cindy was a broken woman. Her life, she often thought, no longer had any meaning. Her only true friends were Paddy and Walter. Walter, Carla Zipp’s bulldog, whom Cindy had not hesitated to adopt, poor confused Walter, who now lived with her and Paddy. Walter, like Cindy, had grieved for her old friend. Many were the times that Walter would sit crying, pining for his dead mistress. Often, during their nocturnal walks in the park, Walter would run off on his own, leaving Paddy confused, as he seemed, to Cindy at least, to be searching for Carla. Other times, while the three were walking towards the park, Walter would strain on his leash, apparently eager to return to his old home.

  Lately though, it seemed that Walter was passing the grieving stage. He appeared to have settled in his new home with Cindy and Paddy, though, every so often, he would yelp with delight whenever he saw, from a distance, any woman who remotely resembled Carla.

  Cindy had been through so much. Sometimes she would try her best to put it all behind her, to try her best to be strong, but the events of two months ago would inevitably destroy her thoughts, or desire, to see any sense in the unfortunate and horrific events that had occurred….

  * * * * *

  Cindy knew no one could hear her. As she cradled her dead friend in her arms, both Walter and Paddy whimpering, she cast a sad and pathetic figure as she slowly rocked on her kitchen floor.

  She had eventually fallen asleep, her throat sore from shouting, her body exhausted and her emotions drained, that, all coupled with the sleeping pills she had taken, had led to Cindy not waking until the following morning.

  It had been then, the day after, she had called the emergency services. An ambulance had arrived, closely followed by the police. The paramedics had pronounced Carla dead and had taken her body away, as Cindy tried to explain to the police what had happened, though, of course, she had no idea.

  She had told the police all she knew. That her friend had been fine when she had last seen her, that Cindy had slept for three hours, as she was distraught and grieving for her poor nephew who had died earlier that day in a road accident. She told the police that she had found her friend lying on the kitchen floor and she had no idea, after repeated questions, if Carla had any medical conditions or even allergies that could have triggered such a sudden death. The officers had asked her to accompany them to the police station, they had more questions, but after three hours, they had released her.

  Cindy did not think that she would ever live through a worse day than the day both Billy and Carla died. But worse was to come. First there was Billy’s funeral. Cindy organized everything, the casket, a burial plot, flowers and a memorial headstone. The only thing she could not organize were mourners. Not one soul, apart from Cindy herself, attended Billy’s sad and lonely burial. His parents, Cindy’s brother and his wife, simply did not show up for their son’s burial. During a rather terse telephone conversation, Cindy had been informed that ‘Billy had been dead to them for years’. Cindy could not believe it. Poor Billy, kindhearted, charitable Billy. She had argued with her brother, but he seemed not to care that his son was dead. He had even told Cindy that she was ‘crazy’ for even letting the boy stay with her, before he hung up.

  Billy, it seemed, had very few friends, and even those friends he probably did have, Cindy had supposed, would be impossible to locate. His friends from the charities he worked for, his friends from college, she simply had no way of contacting them. She had, of course, called his old university, and explained that one of their alumni had passed away and that she would be hosting a funeral. Unfortunately, surely due to some incompetent administrator, the university could not find any trace of a Billy Malphrus ever graduating, let alone attending their school.

  So, it was on a warm spring day that Billy had been buried, with a tearful Cindy the only attendee at his graveside.

  Still in shock, and still grieving, not just for Billy but for Carla also, she had returned home, only to be greeted by two detectives, who had been waiting for her to return from Billy’s funeral, sitting patiently in their car parked outside her home.

  Cindy welcomed them into her home and offered them a cold drink, which, to her surprise, they refused. Indeed their refusal to take anything Cindy offered them to consume was odd. They had both appeared to shout the word “No!” and made a point of shaking their heads and putting up their hands as if to stop a speeding bullet, not a slice of homemade apple pie and a glass of her self-made sweet tea.

  “Mrs. Mopper,” said the first detective, as he took a seat on Cindy’s sofa, along with his colleague, who now both faced Cindy, who was on the easy chair in front of them.

  “Cindy, please,” replied Cindy, innocently and politely.

  “Mrs. Mopper,” continued the detective, ignoring Cindy’s request to address her by her first name. “We have received the autopsy report from the Medical Examiner, regarding Mrs. Carla Zipp, and there are a few questions we would like to ask you.” The detective stared at Cindy, his face stern. The second detective remained silent.

  “It transpires that the cause of death of your friend was definitely poison.”

  “Poison?” said Cindy, visibly shocked by this revelation.

  “Yes, she was poisoned,” answered the detective. “Can you just once again, if you would, just run through the events of last week, the day your friend died?”

  So Cindy did. She recounted accurately all she knew, including the half drank glass of lemonade; she told the exact same story she had told the attending officers and the detectives who had questioned her for three hours at the station, seven days earlier.

  “This lemonade, the lemonade that your friend drank, who gave it to her?” asked the detective once Cindy had confirmed and not deviated from what the detectives already knew.

  “No one,” replied Cindy truthfully. “It was just in the refrigerator. I just told her to help herself to anything, while I rested. You have to realize it had been an awful day; my nephew had just died.”

  Both detectives indicated that they knew this, that they knew all the circumstances surrounding the fateful day.

  “Mrs. Mopper,” said the second detective, who had remained silent up until this point, “where did this lemonade come from? Was it pur
chased, or did you make it yourself?”

  Cindy held back a tear. It had been Billy who had made the lemonade, poor, generous, kindhearted Billy, who without prompting had thoughtfully made the refreshing and tasty drink for not just him, but for her also.

  “No, it was my nephew, Billy. He had become rather good at it, making lemonade that is. He was such a dear boy, he had made it for me, and of course himself. In fact, it was the last thing he did, the last good thing that poor boy did, so thoughtful you see, such a good boy.” Cindy was now crying, memories of Billy’s endeavors of lemonade making flooding back; how he would spend hours making jugs of the stuff, just for them to share.

  “Did you ever drink any of this lemonade?” asked the first detective.

  “Yes, all the time, Billy and I both did. I am sorry but I don’t understand.”

  “Did you drink any of the lemonade that was consumed by your friend on the day she died? Did you pour yourself a glass? From the same jug?” queried the first detective.

  Cindy thought for a moment. Then shook her head. That morning Billy had prepared the jug of lemonade and had told her that it was fresh and cooling in the refrigerator. She had been busy. Walking Paddy in the park that morning with her friends from The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking, she recalled that they had been engrossed in neighborhood gossip, mainly regarding the whereabouts of Tom Hudd, then she had gone to the bank to discuss her finances, or lack of them, as the case had been. She had returned home and had in fact wanted a glass. Indeed, she had poured herself some of the lemonade, but it hadn’t chilled sufficiently for her liking yet, so she had poured it back into the jug, and had decided to wait an hour, until it was at a more palatable temperature. Of course, then had come news, the news of Billy’s accident. So no, no she hadn’t drunk any of Billy’s homemade lemonade that day.